Count to Three
by rhymeswithmonth
Summary: Shaw counted to three, Erik didn't move the coin. But Shaw didn't kill Edie Eisenhardt. instead he imprisoned her, used her to force Erik into obedience. Now Erik must work for the man he hates as his multi-purpose assassin/spy. On the run from American authorities Erik finds himself injured and at the mercy of a lonely telepath. Alternate timeline/universe.
1. Isabelle

Mr. Lensherr was a striking man.

No, not striking, for he had a way of blending into a crowd. He was tall, but not unusually so. He was also rather thin, but then again, these were difficult times and so many families had had to cutback on daily comforts. His hair was brown with ginger tints, combed neatly back from his high forehead and grey eyes set in a sharp, clean-shaven face.

All in all an attractive enough man of about thirty. His hair was not yet greying, and only a few lines marred the skin around his eyes. Some perhaps, would consider his mouth ugly. All thin lips and too prominent teeth. But if he'd been pretty like a movie star, he would have stood out more.

And yet, something about him was appealing. And okay, maybe Isabelle had been feeling particularly lonely this winter; it had always been her husband's favourite season. When he was alive he would take her out skating on the canal, and then for tea at the little French bakery down the road.

But he'd been dead two years now, and Isabelle wasn't getting any younger. Mr. Lensherr was just around her age and handsome enough, and he'd been living in the rooms above her for a month now, long enough for her to notice that he never brought home any lady friends.

For aside from being handsome in a plain, utilitarian sort of way, Mr. Lensherr was an exemplary neighbour. He didn't come or go at unreasonable hours, leaving at seven to go to his job at the steel mill across town and returning at six to take dinner in his rooms and listening to classical music before retiring at ten o'clock each night. He could be depended upon to join the household for Sunday dinner each week, and to graciously accept the occasional offer for tea. He never brought unsavory company to the building, in fact, he never had anyone over at all, not even his coworkers from the mill.

That was another thing that drew Isabelle; the man was obviously intelligent beyond his station. It was evident in the quiet, gruff comments that were characteristic of their brief exchanges in the hallways. His remarks were always just a bit more clever and insightful than anyone else's. She was sure that he could get a better job if he tried.

She was embarrassed to admit that she may have pursued him a bit. She'd take to wandering out into the hall between their quarters in nothing but her nightgown when she knew he'd be going out. Of course, she didn't expect him to pounce and ravish her immediately, although a little ravishing would not be unwelcome, but she had hoped to see a visible reaction to her state of undress. But he'd barely glanced at her breasts, outlined as they were by the flattering drape of the cream silk, nipples jutting indecently because the halls were unheated and she was perhaps lonelier than she'd ever admit and wandering around in her nightclothes was so very uncharacteristic and so a little bit exciting.

She didn't normally dare such scandalous behaviour, it was not how she'd been raised. She'd always done right by her parents, went to college for a while and then dropped out to marry respectable banker Danny. They'd been talking about trying to have a baby before the accident.

But Isabelle was a woman, and she was certain that you'd be hard pressed to find a woman who wouldn't be excited by this tall, mysterious man. It made so much sense, he was handsome, she knew that she was pretty enough, lonely neighbours finding solace in each others' arms.

The only problem was that he just didn't seem interested in what she offered. The late night, scantly clad encounters, a hint of thigh waved tantalizingly during tea, he greeted each blankly and apathetically. So Isabelle decided that it was time to be more direct.

She donned her sheerest nightgown and as an extra measure undid the top two buttons at the collar. She brushed out her hair over her shoulder so that it fell in tumbling waves nearly to her waist. She didn't often wear it down, but she was actually quite proud of her chestnut locks. Then she left her rooms, closing the door quietly behind her and set off up the stairs, her heart pounding with anticipation.

She had this fantasy, that he'd open the door, preferably half way through undressing. He wouldn't had cared enough to put his shirt back on, thinking that it was perhaps their landlord come to call and when he saw it was her he'd apologize profusely, worried that he'd insulted her. She'd silence him with the press of a single finger to his thin lips and step into the room, up against his slender body. He'd then realize all of a sudden that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, that the months of stifling his lust had been pointless because this conclusion, falling into bed with her, was inevitable.

Isabelle had had a spot of scotch, for courage, and that may have been affecting her sense of reality a bit.

It was impossible to be silent on the stairs, for they were quite old and had a few squeaky boards, but the tinkle of piano music coming from upstairs would mask her approach somewhat. She hurried up and rapped softly on the door at the top.

"I'm not dressed!" came the immediate, barked response.

Isabelle's heart skipped and she set her face into what she hoped was a seductive smile. She had procured the spare key to Mr. Lensherr's rooms from the landlord earlier, so she unlocked the door and as it swung forward said, "Neither am I."

Mr. Lensherr was in front of her at once, in more clothes than she would have liked. He still had his undershirt on, though she got a nice view of his well-formed arms and the top of his chest. He actually looked rather pale and nervous, so she opened her mouth to try and dispel his fears, but she was interrupted when he swooped down and kissed her.

She tried the savor the victory, but she was rather shocked so it took her a long moment to begin to appreciate the feel of his mouth on her own. That had been quite a lot easier than she'd thought it would be.

Oh but she hadn't touched a man like this in so long! She felt suddenly lightheaded, and so sagged against Mr. Lensherr's lean frame for support. She didn't think he'd mind.

But as she leaned, she felt a sharp pain in her side, and then warmth spreading. She drew away slightly, mouth leaving the man's with a wet sound to feel at her ribs and oh! She appeared to have been stabbed!

She sucked in air to have a good scream, but suddenly Mr. Lensherr's fingers were in her mouth, choking her. She gaped up at him, moaning despairingly around the appendages. The man's face was ash pale, but his sharp jaw was set in determination and there was another searing pain right under her ribs. She looked down through fear filled eyes to see the front of her fine nightgown soaked crimson. Her vision swam and belatedly she thought to strike out with her hands. She connected with Mr. Lensherr's firm chest, but then the hand that wasn't in her mouth wrapped around both of her wrists, holding tight.

Another point of pain blossomed, in her stomach this time. Her legs gave away but she stayed upright against Mr. Lensherr. She goggled in horror at the man, rivulets of hot blood trickling down her legs to pool in her slippers.

She tasted blood bubbling around the man's fingers, rising in her throat and trickling down her chin. His hand was a solid manacle around her arms and then, when she thought she couldn't stand it anymore; here was a cool touch to her throat and then nothing.

xxx

Erik calmly stepped over the body to close the door, then headed to the bathroom and vomited his supper into the toilet.

He wiped his mouth as the sick spun down the drain, then stumbled back to brace himself against the tiled wall. He heaved a tired sigh. There went another meal, and he was trying so hard to gain weight.

He flushed again, to make sure all the vomit was gone, and then ran the tap until it was ice cold. He stuck his entire head under the stream and forced himself to stay there for a full minute before scrubbing a towel roughly over his face.

There was no real use in washing up before he dealt with the corpse in his foyer, but Erik let the water run over his blood-smeared hands anyway. He just needed a moment to collect himself, to let the panic that had set in the moment the foolish woman had stepped into his room abate. Calm down and let his training kick in, forming a list of priorities in his mind as he picked at the crimson underneath his fingernails.

He dried his hands, pushed his hair back from where it had fallen messily into his face and stepped back into the main room.

Widow Maximoff lay sprawled in the entrance, pool of blood slowly spreading over the dark oak floorboards. Erik steeled himself and knelt beside the body, turned her head to examine the gash in her neck.

She'd taken him by surprise and he'd been sloppy as a result. His grip on his knife had faltered and he'd missed her vitals the first two times, making a mess and causing the poor woman unnecessary pain before finally managing to cut her neck. Erik summoned the knife from where it had been knocked into the corner, the familiar metal responding immediately and flying to his palm.

He grasped the front of her stained gown and yanked it open along the row of pearl buttons. The material gave easily, some buttons popping off and scattering across the floor. The smooth expanse of milky skin was marred by the two slashes, the initial one on her side and then the slightly more effective blow to her stomach. The fine silk pooled around her slender arms, exposing her small pale breasts.

Poor, lonely woman, she'd only hoped to seduce him. If she'd just waited for him to open the door on his own time, just been patient, this needn't have happened. He'd only needed a minute to tuck away the transmitter and shove his papers into the special drawer he kept them in.

Erik slipped the sharp edge of his knife under the woman's lacy undergarments and ripped them open uncovering the dark curls of her pubic hair. If he really wanted to be thorough he'd hit the body to raise bruises, to more convincingly mimic a crime of passion.

But he couldn't quite bring himself to strike a corpse. He stood, leaving the dead woman on the floor and stripped his blood-splattered undershirt and trousers off, then got dressed in fresh cloths. He wrapped his thick wool scarf around his neck and shrugged into his winter jacket.

He would have to disappear. He methodically packed the transmitter into its carrying case, collected the few books and documents that he needed, and slipped out the door, leaving his key on the table.

* * *

SO I've decided to start another story with a bajillion still unfinished. Oh well, so X-men is my latest love affair, specifically XMFC. This story is an AU of sorts, but kind of more like an alternate timeline in the same universe than a totally alternate universe. Main differences is A) that Shaw was smarter and kept Edie alive as a sort of hostage to force Erik to work for him in order to keep her safe. SO Erik is Shaw's unwilling henchman. His powers are a bit weaker than they were in the movie because he doesn't have quite the same level of hatred going on since Shaw didn't murder Edie. He still hates him though.

Difference B) is that Charles and Raven never met, so as you'll see later, poor Charles didn't have the one thing that "softened his hardship". SO the poor guy had a considerably more miserable childhood dealing with all the home issues on his own.

This story was inspired initially by the novel Eye of the Needle by Ken Follett. I read the book while on Vacation in Nova Scotia and, of course, my mind was stuck in the XM fandom so I went ahead and projected the characters into the plot. The story follows a notorious German spy (who has weird un-explained guilt issues) who's running from British authorities who are determined to keep him from delivering the intelligence he's gathered to his people. While running he finds himself in the home of a beautiful British woman whose unhappy marriage spurs her into the arms of the mysterious stranger. The German spy reminded me so much of Erik, and then there's a character in a wheelchair and a bunch of angst so I just felt obligated. There was also no Wifi where I was staying so I didn't have much else to do but write.

The first few chapters in particular are inspired by the novel, but then it branches out. So kudos to Follett for the beginning of this story. I have the first eleven chapters already written so I'm half-assed editing them and will post them every couple days.

ALSO: Isabelle is one of Magda's alias' in the comics and I needed a female name for the woman. I was originally going to make it Magda herself, but I wanted to keep it as much in line with the comics and movies as I could so Magda was in Auschwitz at the same time as Erik.


	2. Charles 1

Charles got married in his army greens.

He was booked to ship out in a week. It had been a spontaneous, rash decision on his part, stemming from an inborn guilt based on his inherited life of excess as well as a consuming desire to get away from the people he called family. The solution to his turmoils seemed to be to enlist.

His Mother had been appropriately shocked and suitably horrified, swooning and gasping when he'd told her, although he knew for a fact that the act was for the benefit of Mrs Emerson who'd been over for tea at the time, and that although she felt a faint sense of sadness for the departure of her only son, she was for the most part simply concerned over the social implications.

Kurt on the other hand didn't even bother to hide his delight. "Builds character!" he'd been touting for the past few months, "Worldy experience." was another and "Fighting for our nation!" made the cut as well. Anyone, even without the ability to see his darkest thoughts, the ones that hoped for his stepson's timely death overseas leaving the Xavier inheritance all to Kurt and his own son, could see that the man would not be sorry to see Charles go.

So this whirlwind romance and hurried ceremony, this was all for them. For Kurt and Cain Marko, Charles stood on this alter, one last insult from the upstart, good for nothing achedemic. Providing a new contender for the fortune in the unfortunate circumstance that Charles be killed in combat.

He looked out over the crowd and met Kurt's eyes. Oh the man was steaming! His thoughts were a tangled broil of hatred and fury and desperation. Charles was used to the first two, but the third was new and slightly alarming. The man on his darkest day had even considered the possibility of murdering Charles' future wife in order to ensure that the line of succession pass to him. He wouldn't actually do it, but the fact that the thought had been entertained was unsettling.

His mother, to her husband's right, was working her way to an orchestrated cry. There was a sense of finallyfinallyfinally there, a smug pleasure at the extravigance of the ceremony, much better than the Richards' boy's wedding a month back, and a touch of impatience at the speed of the proceedings. The Xavier complexion, you must know, burns easily on cloudless days like this.

Cain hadn't shown, which was fine with Charles. His mother had been furious, it was poor form for the stepbrother of the groom to be absent. But Charles was rather relieved. Because where Charles doubted Kurt's conviction in the desire to murder, his son was a different case. The man was greedy and malicious and not at all hesitant to fight for what he wanted. He'd have to warn Gabrielle to be careful when he was gone.

His fiancée, his girlfriend of two measly months, his bride his soon to be wife had entered to room while he'd been distracted by the minds of the guests, and was now climbing the steps of the alter.

Charles fixed a giddy-groom smile on his face and reached out to take Gabby's hands. The crowd cooed quietly at the display of what was surly true love.

Gabrielle Haller was a beautiful woman. To others that meant that she had long, pin straight black hair and long-lashed amber eyes. To Charles her beauty was most evident in her mind. Gabby's thoughts were the purest of any adult he'd met, and that had drawn him to her. The innocent tone of her mind was a refreshing break from the reeking corruption that flavoured most of humanity.

The reason, of course was that Gabby still had the mind of a young teenager. Charles had come across the comatose young woman while in training two months back. Gabrielle Haller had been unconscious since she was fourteen. Now, after six years of unawareness, the young woman presented Charles with a delightful novelty. He may have rummaged around a bit in her brain, reattaching stands of thoughts and soothing damaged areas, chipping away at the areas of trauma which had caused her to fall into that state in the first place, and then giving her a gentle shove to wake up.

It had been written as a miracle. After over half a decade they'd almost given up hope. To find that not only was the girl awake, but she'd also blissfully forgotten the horrors that had triggered the coma. It was the ideal situation.

Gabrielle had awakened to Charles' face, and his mind against hers. She'd fallen for him, then and there, on a conscious and subconscious level, her mind recognizing that he'd saved her, even when she herself couldn't.

That left Charles to the complicated task that was courting a fourteen year old. Gabrielle crushed like a teenager, and was utterly unsure of what to do with the new, mature body she found herself in. She was besotted with him that was a sure thing, but what did a teenager know of adult relationships?

But Gabby (as she'd gigglingly insisted he call her) was an enthusiastic learner. Throwing caution to the wind like only an infatuated teen could, she'd thrown her twenty-year-old body at Charles eagerly. And Charles, never one to be a prude, had shrugged and gone with it.

He supposed he should feel guilty about using such youthful innocence to achieve his own selfish means- mostly pissing off the Markos- but Gabrielle seemed straight out delighted to help him do so. Anyway, she was getting a fortune and a prestigious name in return.

The minister said his piece, Charles dutifully repeated the parts he had to while at the same time listening wih some amusement to the man's distaste for the whole thing. And oh, he'd heard whispers that the Xavier boy was an atheist, and that Ms Haller was a Jew, both equally damning sins in his mind.

Vows said, rings exchanged, blessing (grudgingly) given, Charles took his new wife in his arms and pressed a chaste kiss to her mouth. Gabrielle, still lacking an adult sense of propriety, threw her arms around his neck and opened her mouth passionately.

Charles could hear the gossip mills starting up, and tried to as gently as he could put some distance between him and his new wife. Oh dear his mother was absolutely mortified poor old girl. The other guests were all delighted at the new tidbit of scandal, and the only people who were feeling pure happiness for the young couple was the small group of nurses who'd come in from the city to see their precious Gabby married.

The reception passed in a whirl of too-rich food and false well wishings from the guests. Gabrielle was ecstatic as people she'd heard about of the radio or television, or seen in magazines patted her cheek and presented her with extravigant gifts. For Charles, it was just another party consisting of people who hated each other but pretended to be friends.

Finally, he helped Gabrielle into the backseat of the Bentley, helped arrange the voluminous folds of her dress around her, and squeezed in beside her. With the elite of New York waving them off, they pulled out of the church lot and onto the road.

Gabrielle had been brokenhearted that they wouldn't get a proper honeymoon, but was slightly placated when he'd shown her the Weschester estate. He knew that her idea of a dream vacation was the classic private villa in the Bahamas or the Caribbean, moonlit beach walks and romantic sunsets had coloured her mind pink orange and purple for weeks.

But Charles selfishly had shot down the tropical locations under the farce of his imminent deployment. In reality he just didn't want to go. Xaviers really did burn easily, that wasn't just his mother crying for attention. And he didn't like the way his legs looked in shorts, and sandals didn't agree with his feet. Thankfully, the mansion in the countryside reminded Gabrielle of a castle, appealing nicely to her childish fantasy that he was a prince who was whisking her off to a fairy tail life.

The sun had set, the clear winter sky now speckled with bright pinpricks of stars. The interior of the car was soothingly quiet after such a busy day, and Charles allowed himself to sink back into the seat and relax. Gabrielle leaned against his shoulder, a not unwelcome warmth at his side and dozed peacefully. The driver's thoughts were pleasent enough, half a mind on the road and the other half on his brand new granddaughter and how she'd clung to his finger earlier that day. It was lovely.

The road to Westchester was very nearly deserted at this time of night, and the few cars they passed chugged slowly along the patch-ice.

Except for the one that hit them, coming around the bend full speed and skidding sideways straight into them.


	3. Erik 1

Erik knew at once that the rendezvous had been compromised.

He could see his contact waiting at the designated table on the restaurant patio. The man was young and apparently inexperienced because he had yet to notice the tail who'd been following him for the past hour.

Erik walked by twice in forty-five minutes; both times the woman was still there.

To the agent's credit, she didn't look like the government type. For one thing, she was a woman and that in itself was unusual. She was pretty, with dark auburn hair pinned back underneath a fashionable hat. Her clothes were meant to give the impression of an upper-class wife, put together to be seen, but not practical for doing any sort of work. Dark glasses obscured her eyes, which were likely scanning the street rather than the menu, which she held open in front of her.

Despite the obvious care that had been put into her persona, Erik saw through it right away. Because he was better than they were. It was a shame that his contact wasn't.

Erik pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket and leaned against the telephone booth around the corner from the rendezvous. He didn't actually smoke as a habit, it was just a useful excuse to have when one needed to loiter or slip out of a room without arousing suspicion.

A couple young boys were poking at a stray cat in the alley beside him. The unfortunate animal was protesting feebly, backed up against a trashcan. It's yowls ground at the persistent headache that had been building behind Erik's eyes all morning. "Hey, you there!" he barked at the little rascals. One of them, a mangy redhead whose skin went pale under the combination of dirt and freckles that marred it, ran off down the street as soon as he caught sight of the intimidating stranger. His companion, a scrawny blond had a touch more guts and hung back.

"Me?" he asked boldly, fists clenched at his sides. This was a kid who knew how to fight. Erik looked at his tattered clothes, a kindred spirit then.

Erik nodded and waved the mite forward, "What's your name kid?"

"What's it to you?"

"Just wondering if you'd be interested in making a quick buck, but by your tone I'd say that you weren't."

This caught the kid's attention and he crept forward more eagerly, "Naw I din't say that! Whatcha want me to do then?"

"What's your name?"

"Alex."

"Okay Alex, all you have to do is take this," Erik ripped a page from the German bible in his hand, quickly scrawled the phone number of the booth in the margin and held it out for the boy to take, "And give it to the Spaniard at that Italian place across the street. He'll give you the dollar."

The blond's eyebrows shot up to his scabby hairline. A whole dollar was a lot for a simple delivery, but Erik had long since learned that overpayment was the simplest way to earn the loyalty of the world's lowlife.

"All right then give it here!" the boy snatched the page and trotted off around the corner. Erik followed more slowly, and turned onto the sidewalk just in time to see his contact hand the urchin a coin. He then got up and went inside, presumably to pay the bill. Erik slunk back to the alley, ignored the cat licking its wounds, and settled back to wait.

Just ten minutes later, the phone in the booth rang shrilly. Erik grabbed it out of the cradle before the second ring and hissed into the receiver, "Who are your mother and father?"

"We are the children of no humans," came the reply, in a soft, lightly accented voice.

"We are the children of the atom." They finished in unison.

"I need to see you!" the agent said hurriedly, he sounded hushed, probably was using a public phone as well where there was a risk of somebody walking in.

"Well you've wasted your chance. You were followed, and if I hadn't noticed everything could have been blown."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know! Can we set up another meeting?"

"Can you leave me a message some how?"

"It needs to be in person, this one's from the top."

"How top?"

"The very top."

Directly from Shaw then. Erik groaned internally. There was no avoiding it then. He hated taking risks like this but if he didn't take the message then Shaw would likely...

Erik refused to think of that. That was not an option. "Fine." he snapped into the phone, probably startling the man on the other end with the vicious tone, "But I'll come to you. Just...go about your day. Act natural, see a show or something, go back to your hotel. I'll come when I'm sure it's safe."

The man agreed. Of course he did, he had no choice. He'd be punished as well if the message didn't get passed along.

Erik finished his cigarette. He bought a newspaper and sat on a park bench for an hour so that the timing of he contact's departure and his own wouldn't be linked. The tail had left at the same time as the other man, but he couldn't be sure that they weren't still watching the restaurant. Damn Americans and their paranoia about spies.

At least they were so hung up of the soviets that they hardly ever suspected him. The people of America had been condotioned to fear the foreign agent, but the stock image of the bearded, vodka drinking KGB spy was so ingrained in their minds that the well-dressed, German man smoking in the park generally flew right under their radars.

Erik made the agent wait until nearly midnight to approach him. He hadn't been hard to find, Janos Quested, born in the south of Spain, recently arrived from the USSR, staying in the Plaza Hotel, room 617.

Locked doors and bared windows did nothing to deter Erik, and he was in the suite, ghosting up to the bed in the cover of the pitch-black room. It seemed that Quested had grown tired of waiting and dozed off. Bad form. He flicked the flashlight on, shone it into the sleeping face, covered the man's mouth with his hand and straddled the bed.

Quested woke with a yell and tried to buck him off. Erik held firm and called the metal bed frame to bend and coil around the man's flailing arms. "Be calm!" he hissed in his ear, "And tell me who are your Mother and Father."

He freed Quested's mouth so that he was able to reply properly. Once the formalities were exchanged, Erik demanded the message.

"Show me your face first!" Quested asked shakily, "If you are him, if you are truly...Magnus."

"Don't be a fool, just give the message!"

The man struggled against his bonds and the air in the room began to whirl around Erik's head, the drapes billowing in the miniature tempest. "Stop that!" Erik snarled, bringing his knife to hand and pressing it into the hollow at the base of the man's neck. He momentarily allowed the light to fall onto his face, "Satisfied?"

The man nodded mutely before launching into the aforementioned message. Apparently Shaw wanted Erik to go to DC to gather vital information pertaining to the government's upcoming missile plans, as well as some security protocols.

"You'll need to track movement of forces, number of units, technologies, notable commanders-"

"I know how to gather intelligence." Erik interrupted, "Don't tell me how to do a job that I've been doing for fifteen years." twelve years, but whatever, fifteen sounded better. Quested took the hint and shut up. Erik glared at him distastefully, hating him because he was one of Shaw's lackeys. Hypocritical sure, but Erik's situation was different, had to be different.

Except that it might not be. Janos Quested might very well have someone he loved being held by Shaw, held at gun barrel unless he perform to satisfaction. The man looked young, younger than Erik by at least five years. Surly too young to have a wife, but a girlfriend? A lover? Or a family member. The Spanish tended to have large families, maybe Shaw had an entire brood of dark, slender Questeds hidden away throughout his many safehouses.

The thought should have caused him to falter, should have made him hesitate with what he had to do next, but it didn't, and his knife slid across Quested's throat cleanly, with only a slight gurgle and widening of those glittering, dark eyes as the younger man died.

"You understand, don't you?" Erik whispered, "If he has even just one of yours you'd understand why I have to do this. I can't afford to take risks, and you did see my face."

The bathroom was directly off the bedroom, and Erik detoured there to throw up before slipping out into the night.


	4. Charles 2

Gabrielle told him about the baby four months before its birth.

In a normal situation, it would have been embarrassing for a man not to notice that his wife was in her third trimester, but he really couldn't bring himself to feel guilty. They hadn't touched, after all, as a husband and wife should since before the wedding.

He'd never made love with his wife.

She went into the city a week before the due date, and came back sixteen days later with his son. She named him David, after her father who'd died in the camps.

David was a joy, and unmistakably Charles' son, despite the numerous vicious rumors to the contrary. His eyes were like miniature copies of his fathers' a bright, cerulean blue that held true as the boy aged. Charles delighted in every moment spent with his little boy, secretly thanking the deities that he didn't believe in for the escape from the hell that his life had become.

David, having just turned three years old, liked nothing better than to sit on Charles' lap as he wheeled them around the echoing rooms of the first floor. He couldn't quite feel his child, the shards of metal that found home in his spine on their wedding night had long since made sure of that, but there was a sort of...sensation of weight there, a pressure against his numb thighs that grew more tangible the farther up it went, until the point where David's warm behind was parked snugly against his stomach.

The muscles in his arms bunched and slid smoothly as he propelled the two of them down one hallway, through cavernous chambers and fine sitting rooms. Their destination, the kitchen, held their sought after prize of cocoa and biscuits.

David's mind was a familiar, beloved presence alongside his. Charles knew this little boy's thoughts as well as his own, having immersed himself in the blurry, not-yet thoughts the moment his baby arrived on his mental radar. The prospect of hot chocolate and cookies made the child's thoughts absolutely sing giddy songs of anticipation.

Charles slowed to wrap his arms around the tiny body and press his temple against the glossy black curls, wanting to sink into the boy's mind and never resurface. But David only put up with that for a moment before impatience made him squirm, and Charles laughingly resumed their trek.

When they reached the dark, cold of the kitchen, David jumped down and headed straight to the dried goods where the cocoa powder resided. Charles had to strain slightly in his chair to flick the light on, but he managed. David set the things out, climbing up onto the counter to reach the mugs, and standing on Charles' lap to get the milk. It always took some maneuvering to get the kettle on the stove and light it up, but he wasn't going to let his three year old try.

They'd developed that routine, his little son and he, out of necessity. Gabrielle, the only fully functioning adult, didn't like being bothered to fetch it. She was probably in bed at the moment. He sent out his awareness to encompass the entire house and yes, there she was, curled up in her room on the third floor. Not asleep though, just curled around a pillow and wallowing in her own self-pity.

It was only seven o'clock, they had an hour until David's designated bedtime. Once the kettle had boiled, David sat on the counter and they stirred the mix into the hot water together, and then moved to their favourite sitting room down the hall to curl up together on the monster of a couch, David with his cocoa and Charles with a cup of Earl Grey.

When the hour struck eight, they pretended not to notice. For another half hour Charles read out loud from the old book of fairy tales they kept stashed in the bookcase for cozy nights such as these. Eventually they migrated to the bathroom to brush David's teeth, wash David's face, and kiss David goodnight. Then the child scampered up the massive grand staircase, after a good amount of encouragement from his father because Gabrielle had forgotten to turn any lights on for him again, to his bedroom next to his mother's three floors above. Charles, as he'd promised, waited at the bottom until he heard the faint click of David's door shutting before he slowly wheeled back to the kitchen to clean up.

There was a spot of cocoa on the counter, close to the wall. No matter how hard he tried, Charles couldn't reach it.

The cleaners would get it then, when they came two days from now. Charles wheeled along the cold empty halls until he reached the bedroom that he'd slept in since the accident. It was just off the library and had been a study for over a century before it had been converted.

When he'd come home at last, after two months recovering in the hospital, he'd simply assumed that Gabrielle would move down with him into the new bedroom since he couldn't get up the two flights of stairs required to reach the master bedroom. It seemed, however, that she had already grown quite fond of the room during his time away.

He understood, of course, perhaps even better than she did herself. To this day, Gabrielle was frightened of him, of his alien, motionless legs, of his spindly metal wheelchair. Afraid of her crippled husband.

They had been married for just two months and they'd not yet slept in the same bed.

Since he'd understood, Charles took it graciously. He would give her time, he had told himself, to come to terms with the new life. It would take time, he knew, it was a huge blow for a woman like Gabrielle, to suddenly be saddled with such a burden.

He'd waited for a year before realizing that the depression that had set in during the weeks after the accident wasn't going to go away, that this was to be their life together, Gabrielle hiding upstairs and Charles doing his best to raise their son below.

The mansion that was to be their honeymoon palace became their prison. David made it bearable, even joyful some days. But there was always the oppressive cloud that was his wife's misery hanging over them.

Kurt had died the previous year, and Cain was off doing who knows what overseas. Sharon never visited, not since David was born. Charles hadn't left the estate now in months. In the beginning he'd made attempts, as hard as it had been on his ruined body, to get out at least once a week. Gabrielle had come, not every time, but enough to put on the air of healing, of a couple staying strong together after a tragedy. Then the excursions had dwindled to every month, and eventually not even that.

There was nothing for him on the outside. His family had given up all pretense of caring, he'd quit his position at the university in order to enlist, and then been honorably discharged before seeing action. The few friends he' had still wrote occasionally, but they were scattered all over the globe, jetsetting most of them, some had settled down in various exotic cities around the globe, living it up like wealthy young people should.

He had David. He was content. He chanted it, his own personal mantra day in day out. David filled his life with toddler games and new discoveries every day. But he was growing up so fast. How long would it be before he realized that the wheelchair wasn't a fun toy but the thing that had ruined his family before he was even born? And before that he would be of age to go off to school and what would Charles do with his days then?

He slowly washed up for bed, did the nightly battle with his pajama bottoms, and hoisted himself into his empty bed. He performed the necessary stretches robotically, knowing that they were required to keep his paralyzed legs limber, but unable to silence the nagging voice in his head, the one that was nobody but his-

What was the point?


	5. Moira

Moira MacTaggert had been waiting for years for him to make a mistake.

He went by many names. Magnus was his code name, known throughout the international community as the most efficient, and most ruthless, spymaster and assassin. Erik Lensherr was his preferred alias, the quiet young man with the indistinguishable accent and smooth, handsome face.

Birth name Max Eisenhardt. Moira was one of the few people privy to the fact. Maximilian Eisenhardt, born to Edith and Jakob Eisenhardt in Heidelberg, Germany, raised Jewish his family fled to Poland after the Nuremberg laws were passed, but were captured not long after and at the age of fourteen he was incarcerated in Auschwitz concentration camp. Prisoner number 214782. Jakob Eisenhardt perished in the camp showers, but Edith and Max seem to have disappeared from the record books.

Moira looked down at the dingy photograph attached to the file. It had been taken in a ghetto in Poland, shortly before the Eisenhardts were apprehended. A group of teenaged boys stood in rags, their thin faces staring up at her, all hungry eyes and narrow mouths. Their clothes hung off their bodies at the same time hiding and making painfully clear their malnourished states. But their wide smiles lit the picture, spreading between sharp cheekbones.

At the centre of the group of youths stood Max Eisenhardt, with the biggest smile of them all, far too much tooth in such a young face. It was his Bar mitzvah, a little late, delayed by their flight from Germany. Held in secret no doubt, as so many were in those days, in underground synagogs across Europe the young Jewish boys and girls were allowed a day to feel proud of their heritage.

The happiness frozen in the photo was marred by the knowledge of what happened mere months later, when the Ghetto was ransacked by Gestapo agents, the survivors being dragged into the various camps across Europe. It was very likely that most of the children in the picture were long dead.

But not Max Eisenhardt.

The CIA had been tracking the string of murders for over a decade now, the brutal killings performed by the international enigma that was the assassin Magnus. Magnus killed indiscriminately, or that was how it appeared. There was almost certainly reason behind the kills, a pattern linking the dozens of bloodied corpses that ranged in placement from Asia to South America. Some victims made more sense than others, like the Italian mob-boss found sprawled on the floor of his Vegas hotel room, naked and bloated, throat gaping open grotesquely, or the most recent one, a young Spanish immigrant who'd been linked back to a criminal organization in Madrid that was thought to be associated with powers in the Soviet Union.

Others were by all appearances, completely random. Magnus disposed of an elderly hotdog vender in Toronto, a hotel concierge in Chicago, a whole bar or people in Mexico City. The kills were only connected by the method of murder, a neat slash to the throat, often the only wound but not always, and his calling card, a silver German coin tucked into their pocket. Flashy and melodramatic, and a little sloppy as it gave the police a method with which to track his erratic course around the world. But that was his only sloppy habit, other than that he was impeccably careful not to slip up.

And then his mistake, Mrs Isabelle Maximoff, a pretty young widow living in New Jersey.

A mistake for multiple reasons. First, to have murdered somebody directly tied to his favourite persona, so called Mr Erik Lensherr. Mr Lensherr had been employed for seven months at a steel mill in Trenton, had lived in a boarding house with Mrs Maximoff and two other tenants for the same amount of time.

Second mistake, leaving the body in his room, rather poorly disguised as attempted rape gone wrong. He could have at least tried a little harder, it had taken no time at all to discern that no such assault had taken place. That in itself wouldn't have been very detrimental in the end if it hadn't been for mistake number three...

He should have killed the other occupants of the house.

The landlord Mr Samuel Sawler and his wife Diane, and Joseph Klein, a grad student at Birkbeck. There were also the many employees he'd worked alongside for months, unmasked and exposed. These were people who knew his face, knew his mannerisms and habits, and knew his name.

On a hunch they'd used the few photos they'd had of Maz Eisenhardt, simply because the timing fit with he boy's halted paper trail, and the murders had started in Germany with a few ex-Nazis. The crime scenes had been far less impeccable than the ones in the years following, but it was where he coins had begun to appear. The neighbours coworkers had looked at the photos, the Bar Mitzvah one and one from a few years later, from the Auschwitz records of Max at seventeen, the last documentation of his life. Every single witness had given positive identification.

They finally had a name.

Moira had been waiting for years, ever since she'd started tracking the faceless killer, for him to make a mistake. Now she had a whole plethora to choose from.


	6. Erik 2

Over the years, Erik had actually become somewhat fond of bird watching.

He lounged back against the deck of the boat, resting his binoculars against his stomach and tilted his head into the warmth of the afternoon sun. Spring had come to DC early and it made camping out on the river much more enjoyable.

He watched a kingfisher flit among the reeds close to the bank lazily, pushing his sunglasses up more securely. He hated winter, and some days in December he'd come close to telling Shaw to fuck himself and buggering off to the house in Argentina until the country thawed. He never would have, of course, but it entertained him on the icy days when he sat crouched in the icy mud, imagining the man's face in the moment Erik stick his middle finger under his nose and packed his speedo and sunscreen and just run off.

Spring had finally sprung, as the Americans were fond of saying, and Erik had broken out his proper bird-watching paraphernalia, pressed kaki shorts, complete with matching vest which made him feel like an asshole, a New Jersey Devils cap, and a sturdy black backpack holding his binoculars, field text and notebook filled with his scribblings about the local avian population.

Only a man as crazy as Sebastian Shaw would require a military code that used breeds of birds as symbols.

The river which he was currently floating on was a gentle, meandering thing with a convenient path that took him right passed the backyards of a few of America's top government personalities. From there it was a breeze for Erik to memorize their schedules, then slip into their private residences to take a peek into their briefcases and desk drawers.

He jotted a note about the minister of defense's top-secret missile plans by transcribing a detailed description of the nesting habits of the common swallow. Using the river as well as some night time excursions into a few of the city's embassies, Erik had compiled quite an extensive collection of useful and very top secret points of interest for Shaw to exploit to his heart's content.

His stay in DC was coming to a close, but that didn't mean that Erik couldn't enjoy the city's sights while he could. He took it easy for the rest of the week, biding his time with only a couple low-risk infiltrations, and generally just taking a breather until his departure.

It was a good thing that he did savour the down time when he did because the very day he left the city, all hell broke loose.

They'd already been underway for a good chunk of time, and it wasn't long until they would reach New York. From there, Erik would receive a new passport from his New York connection and fly back to the USSR to deliver his findings.

But a couple hours out, they made a routine stop to load new passengers, and with them, about a dozen police officers. The people in his compartment began to murmur.

Erik stood as casually as he could and slipped into the bathroom. Behind him, he heard he officers calling out for tickets.

He stayed calm of course; there was no sense in panicking, that wouldn't help his situation. He allowed himself a moment to get a firm grip on his composure and assessed his predicament.

There was no guarantee that they were even looking for him. His papers, though fake, had been printed by the best forger in Shaw's employ, and would likely stand up to all but the most thorough scrutiny. But Erik had stayed alive for as long as he had by listening to his instincts, and his instincts were telling him to get the hell off this train.

It took all of his control to bend the small metal window frame outward without making a ridiculous amount of noise. As it was, Erik winced at the shrill protest of the wall bending to form a hole large enough for him to squeeze out of.

Once he'd maneuvered out the ragged wound in the train's side, Erik plastered his body to the side and hung on with every ounce of his power as the wind tore at him. It seemed to be doing its darnest to dislodge him. The forest sped by in a blur, making Erik's stomach curl in rebellion.

Hopefully, he cast his senses out, trying to find some point of metal to latch on to that might be able to make the inevitably painful fall slightly less so. But anything that he felt, bits of ore in rocks and such, whipped by much to fast to fix on.

He did feel one thing that stood out, a massive, hulking structure in the distance. It was only partially made of metal, a building of some sort most likely, but there were enough steel in it for Erik to sense over quite a large distance. It was the only substantial source of metal that was within his range though, and it was growing farther as the train sped on.

Nothing else for it then, Erik loosened his grip on the metal of the train and pushed off, praying furtively that he not hit a tree or split open on a rock.

He did manage to slow himself down somewhat, the train tracks behind him and the minerals in the ground providing enough substance that in his desperation he was able to at least control his fall into a patch of relatively soft ferns.

That wasn't to say that it didn't hurt. Like a bitch. And that the contact with the ground didn't jar his head badly enough to send the world into a spiral. He had just enough sense and energy left to drag himself away from the tracks before blacking out completely in a pool of his own vomit.

* * *

Hmm, Erik puking at the end of chapters seems to be a reoccurring theme...


	7. Charles 3

Charles had discovered early on that jerking awake when one was paralyzed from the waist down was not quite as simple as it was otherwise.

Instinctually, he shot out of bed, top half of his body ready to fight and defend, but his legs remained where they were, tangled in his bed sheets. It caused him to pitch forward, unable to compensate for the momentum, and he ended up folded over his knees, blinking into the darkness.

He immediately began searching for whatever it was that woke him, pushing himself up with the power of his arms alone. His thoughts honed instantly on David, seeking the little boy out and wrapping him in a cocoon of concern and love. Charles allowed himself a moment in the cotton candy sweet dreams of his son, assuring himself that he was safe and where he belonged before pulling away.

Gabrielle was in her room too, in a sleep too deep for dreams. Her mind shivered as he slipped in, subconsciously recognizing the intrusion. He stuck around long enough to make sure everything was as it should be, then withdrew.

Back in his room Charles groped for the light and then tugged his chair closer. They should have been the only three people on the property, as he had dismissed all live in help as soon as he'd regained enough mobility to function independently. Something had pulled Charles abruptly from his sleep, and it wasn't any of his family. He heaved himself into the chair and grabbed his robe to wrap around his shoulders.

Scanning the house for intruders he located the disturbance at once. There was a person passed out on the floor of his front hall.

It had the quality of a mind with a significant head wound, likely a concussion but possibly something more serious. The thoughts of such a person were always fractured and hazy and it generally hurt to look too closely so Charles stuck to the outer edges, picking up the dominant emotions, searching for violent intent.

Pain, fear, desperation and rage, a lot of rage. But the anger wasn't directed at anyone in the house so Charles let it slide. There was relief as well, humming around this mind, a sense of having reached something that he'd been chasing. Whoever it was was completely blacked out, and Charles felt moderately certain that the person meant no harm, so he wheeled as fast as he could to assess the situation.

The man was bleeding on the priceless Turkish carpet that had lain in the foyer since before Charles was born. Sharon would be furious, he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

The front door was open, and it was windy outside so Charles moved to shut it before examining the stranger. He recoiled at once when he got a good look at the door handle. Burnished iron, once finely styled into vines and abstract art deco swirls, it was now a warped knot. It looked as if the metal had been melted and then cooled again, frozen in drooping loops and bubbling lumps.

Charles ran his fingers lightly over the mess. Astounding, he marveled. The damage extended to the hinges, and when Charles tried to swing the door closed, he found that it was fused open. That wouldn't due, but there didn't appear to be anything he could do to fix it, whatever the stranger had done seemed to be something that only he could remedy. So Charles set a thread of his thoughts to spin, in the form of a mental spider web, across the opening to alert him of anything else tried to get through.

Security taken care of he turned back to the man on the floor. He was dressed entirely in shades of grey, a black turtleneck under an ash coloured jacket with dark trousers. His hair in the half-light of the front hall appeared to be brown, and blood glinted darkly from behind his ear and trickled onto the rug.

His clothes were of decent quality, or had been when they were made. Now they were absolutely filthy, torn and stained with what looked like a mixture of mud and blood, in places where skin showed through, raw and cut. Twigs and leaves were tangled in the folds of fabric, and in the man's matted hair. His face was shiny with sweat and his breaths came shallow and harsh.

What to do with him. Charles wheeled as close to his head as he could and reached down to shake one broad shoulder. "Excuse me my good fellow," he said to the unconscious man. Talking to someone who obviously couldn't hear him made him feel a bit like a prat though, so he reached out a tendril of awareness and gave the man a small mental shove.

_Wake up_, he prompted, _come back to the world of the aware_.

The man's mud streaked face twisted against the carpet and a low raspy moan escaped his chapped lips. Charles felt the throb of his mind trying to orient itself, taking in information piece by piece. The head wound was hindering his progress badly, and his confusion whirled around the room.

Charles pressed his knuckles to the man's temple and tried to send calming thoughts to him. "Calm your mind," he murmured, "You are safe here my friend, but you need to wake up."

Grey eyes opened, cloudy and only half aware.

Charles held out his hand and the stranger took it shakily. "My name is Charles Xavier," Charles said, helping the man to turn over into a slouched sitting position against the wheel of his chair, "This is my home," Charles continued, "And you seem to have battled the forest to get here. You have an injury to your head of as of yet unknown severity, and numerous other smaller wounds to your body. I'd like to get you to a bed and get a better look at them but I'm afraid I'm something of an invalid, and can't carry you there. Can you find the strength to walk?"

The man seemed to register at least some of that, and despite the fact that he looked like he was about to slip back into oblivion, he somehow managed to heave himself upright. Charles took hold of his arm and laid it along the back of the chair, giving permission to lean on it if needed.

Together they made their awkward way back down the hall towards the library. Charles briefly considered the chaise before guiding the man into his own bedroom. At the sight of the four-poster in the middle of the room, a grunt escaped the stranger's lungs and he extracted himself from Charles to stumble forward and fall onto the rucked up duvet.

Smiling wryly Charles glanced at the glowing 2:48 on the clock beside the bed and resigned himself to a long day. He left the man to fetch a bowl of warm water with some rags from the kitchen, as well as the first aid kit.

Surprisingly the man was still awake when Charles returned. He stared from the pillows with sharp, distrustful eyes. Charles smiled in an attempt to put him at ease. "Good to see you a little more awake!" he chirped, setting the kit on the bed by the man's boot-clad feet and depositing the bowl onto the table clumsily, a little bit of water sloshing out.

"Where am I?" the man rasped, and Charles was pleasantly surprised to here an echo of an accent there, although he could quite place it.

"My house," Charles answered kindly, not quite sure how specific the man wanted him to be "Greymalkin lane, Westchester county, New York, the United States of America."

"You live all the way out here...alone?"

"Oh no." Charles hummed, reluctant to talk about his family with this mysterious man, "The others are upstairs. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a look at that bump on your head."

The man started, and raised his hand to his skull looking mildly surprised when it came away with blood on it. "Oh, right." he said weakly and then leaned forward.

Charles braced one hand against the man's firm chest to keep him from tumbling to the floor. "Careful." Charles said gently, then raise one of the rags and parted the greasy hair as tenderly as possible, "This will probably sting a bit I'm afraid, I do apologize."

"Just do it." the stranger grunted, "I can handle it."

Charles was certain that he could. Everything about this man screamed that he'd been through hell over and over and come out each time harder and rougher than before. Nodding, he pressed the cloth against the grape-sized knot behind the man's ear.

An intake of breath was the only reaction that prompted, so Charles set about cleaning the wound as quickly as he could. The man sat still under his hands, only making a noise of discomfort when Charles broke out the antiseptic.

After Charles felt comfortable with the state of the man's head, he turned his attention to the rest of he long body currently dirtying his bedclothes. "If you'll allow me-" he asked hesitantly, trying to feel out the man's emotional state, how he'd react to being stripped by a stranger.

The man waved him on drowsily, his mind one tired ache. So Charles set to work removing the filthy wool jacket, unbuttoning the ripped shirt and stripping off the rumpled pants. He decided to leave the man in his knickers, preserving as much propriety as possible when one had a strange man in one's bed. Then he went to work disinfecting the various cuts along the man's long limbs and slim torso.

"What's your name?" he asked as he worked.

"Erik."

No last name then. No matter, things didn't stay hidden from a telepath for long. "Well Erik," he said as cheerfully as he could manage, "If it makes you feel any better, I'm technically a doctor."

To his surprise, Erik started laughing. His shoulders shook under Charles' hands and when Charles looked up at him questioningly, he was graced with the widest, toothiest smile he'd ever seen. "Of course," the man chuckled, and his thoughts were a contradiction, a storm of fear and disgust and loathing that made Charles' mind recoil in horror, "Thank you very much, Herr Doktor."


	8. Erik 3

When Erik woke up there was a toddler staring at him.

It was an enchanting child, from what Erik could see, though that wasn't much. The bed was so tall that he could only see a set of very blue eyes and sleep messy, ink-coloured hair. But the eyes were wide and innocent with impossibly long lashes and the skin was smooth and porcelain pale. A beautiful little boy.

"Are you my uncle?"

Erik blinked blearily and scrubbed at the sleep crusting his eyes, only to wince at the spike of pain it sent through his skull. "What?" he grunted, poking experimentally at the goose-egg at the base of his head. Ouch, not a good idea.

"Are you my uncle? I've never met my uncle. Spiderman has an uncle and he was the best. I have an uncle too but Da says that he lives far away and can't come see me."

"...Yea sure kid, whatever you say." He really didn't feel up to dealing with this. His head ached, his body ached, he had to piss. All in all he felt rather like...he'd jumped off a train and dragged through a forest as a matter of fact.

"...Because if you were it would be awesome! Do you have a present for me? Uncles are supposed to bring presents right?"

"I'm not your uncle kid. Where's your father then?"

"I'll call him!" and the kid scrunched his eyes shut, screwed up his face and put his fists to his ears. Erik stared blankly, waiting for any of this to make sense.

"Uhm...kid...so are you going to get your father or do I have to wander around until I find someone."

Blue eyes sprang open and the boy pouted cutely, "My name isn't kid, my name is David! And my Da's coming because I'm thinking about him coming."

Okay so he was dealing with a crazy child. Erik was in the process of maneuvering his feet to the ground, swaying with lightheadedness when a voice from behind him called out, "David my love, what are you doing up? It's far too early."

An impish grin flashed across the boy's face, dimpling his cheeks and then he flew to the door where the man from the night before, Xavier he'd introduced himself as sat in a high-tech looking wheelchair. David launched himself at the man babbling at top speed. "Da, Da there's a man in your bed. Is he my uncle Da? Is he going to live with us."

Xavier pulled the child into his lap and tried in vain to smooth out his bird nest of hair, "Sweetheart we've talked about this," he tutted, "Your uncle lives too far away to visit. Now, go back upstairs and read your books, and read your books, I'll make you some toast in a bit"

The boy huffed and puffed and pulled the most devastating puppy dog face Erik had ever seen but Xavier chucked his chin and pushed him gently out of the room.

"So you've met my son." Xavier said evenly when the patter of tiny feet had faded into the distance, "I'm sorry if he woke you, he'll have been looking for me. Little mite will talk your ear off if you let him get started."

"He's...a charming boy."

"He's the light of my life." the man's whole aura suddenly shifted, and Erik previously would not have believed that he would find a small British man in wheelchair intimidating, but Xavier managed it. His eyes, which Erik saw were just as blue as his son's bored into him, and Erik felt the overwhelming urge to look down, managed to fight it down and stare levelly back.

"I mean your family no harm." he said quietly, "I came last night seeking sanctuary only. I will leave."

The other man considered him silently for a long minute, so long that Erik felt an uncomfortable prickling in his spine. He had the intense feeling of being stripped bare under those eyes, and laid open to the world. It was an alien feeling, after years of dedicating himself to revealing nothing, and he couldn't help but squirm.

Xavier nodded once to himself, seeming to have reached some sort of conclusion. And his face split into a warm, genuine smile. "Well then my friend, let me check that bump of yours, then if you'll join me for breakfast, I'd love to hear any of your story that you're willing to share."

The walk, shuffle really as his tumble then drag through the several miles of forest had taken more of a toll than he liked to admit even to himself, from the bedroom to the kitchen left Erik embarrassingly winded. He sat at the large island recovering while Xavier, who'd cheerfully insisted that Erik call him Charles, bustled about fixing tea and bagels.

The blurred memories of the night before, of the hours spent struggling through the wilderness, inch by agonizing inch came back to Erik in bits and prices. He recalled the world filtering down to one thing, the feeling of the hulking metal structure- which he now realized was the modern additions of this house, this mansion. He'd dragged his broken body through the forest and onto this man's front step.

The metal that he'd felt wasn't actually part of the main building, which was made of wood and stone but rather the newer, more modern additions such as this cavernous kitchen. But Erik could still feel the magnitude of the home by the multitude of brass detail and he even sensed a bit of rich, heavy goldwork here and there. The building spread around him in all directions, upwards to four stories at its peak, and sprawling across hundreds upon hundreds of square feet. Erik even felt the pull of a reinforced sub-basement of some sort, and an underground room full of so much metal that reminded him eerily of Shaw's laboratory.

Xavier had said that he was a doctor.

However the man himself couldn't have been more different of he tried. Where Shaw was slick and oozed charisma, this Charles Xavier character was humble and even bumbling. Erik tried to watch him without looking like he was watching him. The man was dressed in the same ridiculous maroon dressing gown as he'd been the night before, and the legs of blue pinstripe flannel pajamas peeked out from under the hem. On his feet were soft looking beige slippers, the left one had a hole in the toe. There was what appeared to be a chocolate stain on the robe as well.

He was talking about something or other, something science that Erik's brain isn't quite up to following right now. But his eyes do follow the movement of Xavier's hands as they weave through the air, alternately punctuating a sentence and spreading butter across a piping hot bagel. The way he talked about his work was vastly different as well, where Shaw had always been cool and to the point, professional to the core, Xavier's pale cheeks were flushed with excitement, eyes slightly unfocused while he recited the words like a prayer.

Xavier set the plate piled with bagels-and a couple scones- down in front of Erik, along with a mug of fragrant tea. "Oh yes," the man chirped in his posh accent, "There's also the matter of the front door. If you'd take a look at it as soon as you feel well enough, I'd be much obliged if you'd return it to the way it was before. As it stands it'll stir up some awkward questions."

Confusion, then horrific, paralyzing comprehension. Erik rose from the counter on shaky legs, ready to pull all the metal in the room to him, ready to put it through Xavier's chest if he needed to. It was a shame that he had a son, but Erik couldn't afford to be soft.

"Oh my friend." Xavier murmured, blue eyes wide and imploring "There's no need for that. I am your ally I swear." then his hand went to his temple, slowly as if Erik were a skittish animal, and pressed two fingers there. All at once there's a voice in Erik's head, as loud and clear as if there was someone speaking lowly in his ear, "please calm your mind Erik, I am like you."

Ah, the man was a telepath. This was just getting worse and worse. "Excuse me if that doesn't exactly calm me but I've had some rather unpleasant experiences with telepaths. Now get the hell out of my head!" To emphasize his point he sent a sharp bard of intent outwards, and was rewarded with a surprised flinch from the man.

"Unpleasant experiences...you mean to say that there are others? That you've met other telepaths?" Xavier gasped, hunching over in his chair like the news was a physical blow.

"Just one." Erik snarled, struggling to keep his anger high in order to keep all the metal at attention, "And she's a regular bucket of sunshine. But that's not important, what did you see when you were in my head? What did you steal from me?"

In a fashion that Erik was beginning to think was typical of the man, Xavier ignored the question completely, "Bucket of sunshine? You're being sarcastic I assume, so does this mean that the other telepath's gift hurt? what's her name? Where does she live? If she's within my range I could contact her and we could compare abilities! I wonder if she-"

"Shut up!" Erik snapped, feeling the rush of adrenalin that had propelled him from his seat beginning to drain, leaving him sore and exhausted. "And tell me what. Did. You. See."

Xavier combed his hand through his chestnut hair and leaned back to gaze at Erik calmly. The look made Erik slam down as many mental walls as he was capable of building, sure that the man must be reading him as they spoke. Emma's powers had always been detectable by the sensation of ice forming on one's thoughts, very similar to a brain-freeze. For anyone who didn't know what it was it could pass off as an unusual headache. But when this man had spoken in his mind Erik had felt no warning whatsoever. This man was dangerous.

"Erik, I swear to you," Xavier said slowly, face open and painfully honest, "I have not read your thoughts even once while you've been here. I've been keeping tabs on your emotions only, just to make sure that you meant no harm to me or my family. And you don't. You are frightened and you feel cornered but you don't want to hurt me. Please calm your mind and we can talk."

Erik should kill him, this was more than risky this was down right hazardous. This man knew about Erik's abilities, and worse yet he was a mind reader. He could pluck his secrets from his head like nothing at all, like he was choosing the ripest apple in the bin to devour. It wouldn't be difficult to get rid of him, he was a cripple for gods sake! Even if he fought back psychically Erik felt confident that he could fend him off long enough to get metal into him. And of the other residents of the house, so far Erik had only seen the child. The tiny, helpless little boy. Erik hadn't ever had to kill a child before, but this was a special case-

And then he was sent crashing to the tiles, his grip on the metal severed completely. Xavier rolled closer, his slippered feet inches from Erik's face and he said, voice suddenly cold, "The next time I feel your malicious intent shift away from me and toward my son, I will turn you brain to pulp, no matter how distasteful I find the action. Do you understand Erik? It's all good and well for you to hold knives to my throat, but leave David be. He's a harmless child."

"Not to me, he's seen my face."

"He'll barely remember you. He's three, give it a week and you'll be completely out of mind."

Erik struggled to his knees. His ears were ringing and his thoughts feel sluggish. He couldn't feel any metal at all. "M-my powers," he choked, "What have you done?"

"Think of it like flicking a switch." Xavier said evenly, "Right now it's in the off position. I only need to turn it back and your abilities will return. But I could do it again, just as easily. I won't want to, but if you threaten my child I will be forced to." and with that his powers are back, and he had a knife to Xavier's throat.

The man didn't even flinch and they stare at each other, neither one blinking.

"I can give you this," Xavier finally broke the silence, "Stay a couple days, recover. I will not tell anyone that you are here, in fact, I can dissuade any strangers who come into the area from coming to the house. I will not go any further into your mind than I already have, your secrets are your own. But I would still like to hear your story, anything that you'd willingly tell me and no more. If you still feel, at the end of your stay, that we are threats to you, I will wipe the memories of you from my own child's mind. Please find it in yourself to trust me Erik, you are safe here, I only ask that you not harm David."

Erik's vision had begun to blur, and he realized that refusing this man would be foolish to the extreme. His injuries would make traveling almost impossible, and here was a sanctuary where he could grow stronger in relative peace. This man appeared to be powerful, but that could work in Erik's favour. He claimed he could keep people away.

"Fine." Erik said, dragging himself back up into the stool. "Just don't...read my mind. Ever."

"Don't give me a reason to, and I'm sure we'll get along splendidly."


	9. Gabrielle

SO sorry everyone, the last chapter, the one from Raven's perspective, is actually not supposed to be chapter nine XP I posted in the wrong order. It doesn't matter that much as it hasn't really got a specific chronological spot, but I will be removing it anyway because it messes up my pattern if it stays. (my pattern being, Charles, Erik, Charles, Interlude, Erik, Charles, Erik, Interlude...etc etc) That means it will be slipped in three chapters from now. Apologies, here's the real chapter nine!

Also, there's some art for this story up on my DA page if you want to go check it out: rhymeswithmonth . /art/Count-to-Three-334041855 (take out the spaces)

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Gabby woke up craving apple juice.

This provided a dilemma because the juice was in the fridge which was in the kitchen which was downstairs. Gabby had come to hate the first floor of the mansion, had come to hate the entire mansion as a matter of fact, but the first floor especially, because that's where he was. Her husband, the father of her child, Charles.

She knew that it probably made her a bad person, but she couldn't help but think, each day as she woke up and found that, yes, she really was 23, that her parents were dead and most of her friends too, and that she was in the United States, in New York City. That she had a three year old son, and a husband. An obscenely rich, freakishly intelligent, crippled husband.

She had not come away from the accident unscathed. There were two long jagged scars along her left calf where a twisted piece of the seat had pinned her leg to the ground, as well as a smaller one on her forehead which she had to brush her hair differently in order to cover.

Both wounds superficial enough that she'd been awake for the nearly fifteen minutes it had taken for the emergency vehicles to reach them, and then the ten more while they'd worked carefully to peel the remains of the car from around the three bodies inside.

For nearly half an hour, Gabby had lain in the road, the beautiful white lace and chiffon of her dress became soaked through with snow and blood. Charles, her husband of a scant six hours had been thrown sideways upon impact, and landed across her stomach. She'd had a spectacularly good view of the shard of metal as long as her forearm sticking straight up from his lower back.

Twenty-five minutes had passed like 25 years, and in that time a whole lot of things had gone through Gabby's head, some not really relevant at all, others more so. She'd prayed, of course, right off the bat. She'd squeezed her eyes tight against the tears and the snot and blood from the cut at her hairline and prayed desperately to wake up from the nightmare, to open her eyes to her bedroom at home in Dresden, to the smell of her mama cooking hotcakes and her little brothers running around in the hall, their Bubba yelling at them to quiet down. Instead she'd been greeted with the hellish vision of red lights on ice and crimson against ivory.

She remembered the day the doctor had brought her the news. She'd more or less recovered in the week since the accident, only staying in for some extended observation. She hadn't been to visit Charles yet, all she'd known was that he was on too many meds to speak and that he was going into surgery nearly every day.

They'd informed her, very gently, that her husband would likely never regain the full use of his legs.

Charles Xavier was a good man. He was the type of man Imah and Bubba would have wanted her to marry, though they would have pouted over the fact that he wasn't Jewish. Charles was nice, he was smart, he was gentle with her and always seemed to truly listen when she talked. When she'd woken to the sight of his smiling face, she'd thought he was an angel, and even days after she hadn't been totally convinced that wasn't the case. She had liked Charles.

But the truth was, she barely knew him. He was kind, he was intelligent, and he was her husband. But as to who Charles Xavier actually was, she really didn't know much more than the general population could glean from the pages of the Times. To suddenly be faced with a doctor explaining to her the details of aiding a paraplegic with catheter maintenance, and what the best brand of mattress was to avoid bedsores, it all seemed a little unfair. She hadn't signed up for this.

Thankfully Charles managed to retain the majority of his control over his bodily functions over the two month stay in ICU, and when he was strong enough to leave, he'd taken one look at her and announced that he'd hire a stay in nurse. The relief had been overwhelming. So the nurse had stayed with them until Charles no longer needed assistance in day-to-day living.

And then of course there was David, her child. She loved him, truly. But he'd just turned three, the age that her youngest brother had been in her last memories of him, they even looked a bit alike. She felt more like she should be his big sister than his mother. She had no idea how to be his mother, not when her first instinct upon hearing him cry was to shout for her own Imah to tend to him instead of going herself.

She wondered if David would fetch her a glass of juice. She slid to the floor nervously, bare feet making virtually no sound against the hardwood, and slipped out into the hall.

The door across from hers, David's room, was slightly ajar. She wedged her fingers in and made the crack wide enough for her body and entered.

The bright, sunny colours of the nursery always made her feel better. The bed on the far wall was a miniature version of a four-poster, it would have looked strangely tiny in the large, high ceiling room, but it was balanced out by the waist-high bookshelves that Charles had commissioned while she was still pregnant. They formed a little library filled with a collection of picture books and puzzles that would put an actual library to shame. The shelves however, were half empty, the books on the floor. Multiple chests stood open, spilling toys across the room and the bed was unmade, the tiny desk was covered in cookie crumbs. It was rather messy.

Gabby was gripped by the sudden feeling that she ought to clean the room, before catching herself bending to retrieve a fuzzy beige teddybear. She hated cleaning, and the cleaning service would take care of it in a few days. She didn't put the stuffed toy down though, instead bringing it to her chest on a whim. It felt good in her arms so she squeezed tighter and left the room. She'd have to get her own juice, but she did feel better with the bear.

The trip down the two staircases was a very long one when you were trying to be quiet. The main house was very old, and more of the floorboards squeaked than didn't. She knew the path of least racket, but it still took precision to undertake.

She led with her toes, pointing them and putting light pressure on each step before committing. Her feet had turned motley purple from the chill of the morning where they poked out from underneath her floorlength nighty. Her hands gripped the banister tightly, poised ready to take her weight is she felt the telltale shift of pressure that indicated when a board was about to squeak. Her brow furrowed in concentration, think quiet thoughts she told herself furiously, think quiet thoughts.

That's how the man found her, almost at the bottom of the last flight. They both froze and stared at each other.

He was blindingly handsome. If Charles had been an angel in her eyes because of the soft, gentle beauty of his creamy skin and wavy brown hair, this man was one because of the harsh, rawness of his boney features and hooded eyes. A shiver passed through her as his storm grey eyes bored into what she fancied was her very soul. Her knees felt weak and her foot fell on the last step, emitted a loud long squeak.

Charles appeared instantly, as if summoned by her lapse in concentration. He looked shocked for a moment before smiling brightly. "Dear you're up!" he exclaimed, rolling between her and the mysterious newcomer, "Are you feeling better today? I've just cleaned up breakfast if you're feeling up to eating a spot. And where are your slippers your toes must be freezing!"

She tried to formulate words under the expectant stare of the handsome stranger, "Um...juice...in was just...um getting...apple."

"Absolutely!" Charles beamed, always so overly happy despite the fact that he was a useless cripple. He twitched in his chair before hurriedly wheeling around and motioning for the stranger to lead the way to the kitchen. The man wordlessly complied.

"Erik's an old friend." Charles was explaining as they walked, he'd fallen behind to wheel beside her despite the fact that she'd purposely been walking slowly so that he wouldn't. He twitched before continuing, "He's going to be staying with us for a while, if that's alright with you of course darling."

Gabby nodded, lips pressed together tightly. She didn't mind at all if this handsome 'Erik' stayed with them. Maybe he'd take the room next to hers, there would be no chance of Charles hearing if the man felt inclined to thank her for her hospitality by rescuing her from the pit of despair that was her life by wooing her and then they'd make passionate love all night, he'd put his hand over her mouth as he thrust slowly into her and pumped her to the sort of climax that she'd read about in her novels, and she'd positively scream against his fingers and he'd lick her breasts. She'd feel torn with guilt over the affair, for she was a married woman before god! But Erik would kiss her protests away and begin again, making love until she would no longer move, and then a little bit longer. It would be so romantic, just like one of her soaps.

Charles had fallen silent during her imaginings and stared at the floor, face completely blank. He got like that sometimes, and it scared her a little. She wondered how a man like Charles was friends with Erik. Charles was an academic and a trust-fund baby who'd undoubtedly never wanted for anything. Erik on the other hand had a rangy, hungry look about him that indicated a hard, lonely life.

"Erik and I met at Oxford." Charles said monotonously. And suddenly it made sense. Of course they'd met at Oxford, Erik must be so brilliant that he's gotten offers, no, pleas from all the best schools. He wouldn't have needed to buy his way into school, he'd have gotten in just with his brains alone.

Charles was really in a twitchy mood. Since the accident it had been like a side effect of his paralysis or something, but today seemed to be a particularly bad day. She felt a momentary flash of concern but managed to beat it back. Charles always took care of himself, there was no use in her worrying. She should just relax and enjoy the view of Erik and his broad back, slender waist, nicely formed arse and two, long, gloriously mobile legs.


	10. Charles 4

"She makes you miserable." Erik said once Gabrielle retreated upstairs with her cup of juice, and a bagel that Charles had reheated for her. He hadn't posed it as a question, simply a statement of fact. Charles shrugged, suddenly too tired to fight this fight.

"Why do you stay with her then?"

Charles scoffed and rolled the familiar path to the liquor cabinet. The gigantic mahogany cupboard was one of his favourite parts of the house. He imagined that by now there were permanent grooves in the floor from the multitude of times he'd wheeled to and from the finely stained doors. "How could I leave?" he asked, as much himself as the man standing behind him, "There's David to think of. Gabby may not be the world's best mother but the courts wouldn't care."

"She doesn't seem like she'd be capable of raising a child on her own to me. Surly you could make them see that. And anyway, couldn't you just," he wiggled his fingers at his head, "convince them?"

Charles selected one of his finest bottles of scotch and pulled it from the shelf along with two low glasses and motioned for Erik to follow him out of the room. The man stalked along beside him, waiting patiently for Charles to speak. "Moral high ground." he replied after a minute. "Personal ethics, yadda yadda. I don't like to influence people unless strictly necessary."

Erik frowned. He obviously had no such sentiments, had probably never had the luxury. He also didn't question the early hour as Charles poured them both a healthy three fingers of scotch; Charles was beginning to grow fond of the man. "Besides," he said, keeping his voice chipper, but not really bothering to disguise the self-deprecating twist of his mouth, "I've spent my whole life living with people who make me miserable, I don't think I'd know how to live any differently." he tossed back a good mouthful of scotch, savouring the smooth burn. "So my friend," Charles ventured forward when Erik didn't comment, "Are you married? Got a wretched wife of your own waiting for you? Oh, is that perhaps what you're running from so determinedly, should I be expecting the missus banging on my door any time soon?"

Erik ignored the underhanded inquiry about his predicament just as smoothly as Charles had expected him to. "Never been married." he said matter-of-factly, "Never had the time to try."

"Oh surly not, an outstanding gentleman such as yourself must have a girl pining away back home, a lovely Ines, or Hilda perhaps...Maeve? Tatiana? Simone? Saanvi? Yoshi?"

"I can tell what you're doing Xavier."

He put his free hand to his throat in a gesture of having been greatly offended, but his eyes were twinkling. "Me sir? I know not what you mean. And I've told you, it's Charles."

Erik rolled his eyes but Charles caught a hum of comfort rolling off him. The man was much more relaxed now, with a glass of fine liquor in his hand, reclined languidly across a plush armchair. Charles even fancied that he might be almost content. It was a nice change to feel another adult so at ease in his presence. Gabby of course spent every minute they spent together counting down the seconds until she could get away. The various workers he employed thought of him as the master of the house, an illusive figure in a plain above them, not an equal. Erik had no such notions, he saw Charles for what he was and that was enough to make him want to cry with relief. He hadn't realized just how starved he'd been for companionship until now. "My friend I might not let you leave." he mused aloud.

That statement, as strange as it was, didn't seem to faze Erik. He smiled wryly and sipped his drink, treating Charles to an intense look that made him shiver, not unpleasantly. "Are you going to keep me locked up in your dungeon Charles?"

"Mmm perhaps. Would you protest very strongly?"

"Depends." Erik's long fingers stroked a path through the condensation on his glass, "On how you treat your prisoners. Do you serve them all such fine alcohol?"

"Only if they behave."

"And if I don't?"

Charles felt his eyes widen, and he was unable to stop the slow smile from spreading across his face. Oh this man was quite something! Quick as a whip and a good conversationalist, talking to him was fast proving to be a delightful way to pass time. "Well I think I have some light beer in the basement from years ago that I could dig up if the need arose."

"What kind?"

"I believe there's still some such American brand name types down there from my college years."

"Oh god that's cruel and unusual torture! I'll just behave myself then."

"Not a fan of American brew?"

"Heavens no, complete waste."

"And what would you prefer then?" Charles asked, leaning forward in his chair and quirking an eyebrow, unashamedly digging for information. Erik wasn't fooled, but he stroked his whiskery cheeks in mock contemplation nonetheless.

"I do enjoy some Canadian beers, and a good Aussie pint has it's time and place." he mused thoughtfully, "I am rather fond of some southern drafts as well, and I've always thought that the Germans can brew a decent one."

Hmm German. The name Erik wasn't particularly exotic, but it was a possibility. He looked like he could be Canadian, but the hint of an accent made Charles inclined to think not. German then, was the best bet.

"Personally I've always been partial to the stronger stuff." Charles announced, saluting with his glass and draining the remaining liquid with a satisfied smack.

"Mmm. I'm a martini man." Erik hummed, rising to refill Charles' glass for him. At the sight of Charles' incredulous face he paused and sniffed, "Don't judge, allow me my preferences."

"To each his own then." Charles agreed amicably .

"Admit it though Xavier," Erik said after a period of comfortable silence in which glasses were refilled and Charles undid the top button of his shirt as the alcohol worked its way into his system.

"Charles." he interjected, determined to break Erik into the familiarity.

"You want to leave her. You've thought about it haven't you."

"...constantly. Not that it's your business."

"It's just, I don't picture you living like this. You're not the sort to just sit by and let the world have its way."

"Well I can't exactly stand."

"But that shouldn't stop you. You're a fighter. You just don't want to admit that you are, for reasons beyond my understanding."

"You've only just met me." Charles said quietly, more shaken by the conversation than he'd like to acknowledge "You can't pretend to know me. That's not how it works."

"Says the mind reader." Erik has moved forward in his seat, elbows braced against his knees, glass forgotten on the end table. "I may not have as powerful resources as you do, 'my friend', but it's my job to know how people think. How they're going to react. It's the only way I stay alive."

"Hmm, maybe you have some latent psychic abilities."

"I highly doubt it. If I did I'd know why you stay. I gauge a persons probable actions based on the way their personality indicates they will deal with any given situation. But with you there is a disconnect. I look, I gauge, but then you turn around and do the opposite to what I would have predicted. If I had your gift I could see the reasoning behind your actions, instead of being baffled by them."

"Hmm I think I see what you mean." he's leaning forward too now, as intrigued as he was frightened of what was coming out of his companion's mouth. "Tell me, Erik, how should I deal with the situation I find myself in? How do I go about living my life according to the man I am?"

Erik grinned, apparently delighted by the challenge. Then his eyes turned thoughtful, his hands twining between his legs as he considered his response. Charles held his own empty glass in a loose grip, no longer interested in drinking. He let the man take time with his response.

"You are young, I'd estimate...twenty-two, twenty-threeish?"

"Twenty-five."

"Twenty-five. Judging by the age of your son, who is obviously that woman's child, not one from a previous relationship, you've been married for at least three years."

"Nearly four."

"Got married when you were twenty-two then?"Charles nodded. "Married at a young, but respectable age. That tells me that you are sensible and level-headed, but aware of what is expected of you. You are responsible."

"That's good to hear."

"Now, from a purely objective point of view, your wife is very pretty. But she doesn't have the...poise that you do naturally. I feel confident in guessing that she doesn't come from wealth, that all of this around us is yours."

He waited expectantly and Charles realized that he was seeking conformation. He nodded. "So it wasn't a marriage of convenience. Not for you at least, and she doesn't exactly strike me as a gold digger. Maybe it was her family?"

"All of her relations died before we met."

"Then true love? Unlikely, since the spark seems to have fled so completely. Hmm, you had motivation to marry her though, then what about your family? Pressuring you to settle down, produce an heir?"

"Hmm not exactly. Close though, you're doing very well."

"I'm still betting it has something to do with your family. But I'll move forward. You have obviously been in some accident or something that has confined you to this chair. You move confidently, so not a recent occurrence, but not so much so that it happened in your childhood. Within the past five years I would estimate."

Smile and nod old boy, see where this is going.

"Your son, David. It's clear that you love him, cherish him, dote upon him. I haven't seen your wife interact with him yet but from the exchanges I've witnessed between you two I'd say you are the more involved parent despite our disability. You haven't let it get between you and your child, you have strong fortitude, you're proactive when you want something badly enough. And yet you haven't left the woman that makes you miserable."

"So," Erik tapped the index finger of his right hand, "to review I have surmised that you are sensible, responsible, strong of spirit and proactive on occasion. I also know that you are intelligent, kind enough to be warm towards your wife despite the fact that you don't love her, naive enough to take in a stranger you know nothing about, even after I held a knife to you, and yet for some reason you have stuck around for this long. In summery, you sir are a smart, idealistic paradox."

"Ha! I've never been called that before."

"Glad to set the record straight. Now, as far as the most likely course of action for you, this is the best I can give you. You, Charles Xavier, should have ages ago gotten a divorce, setting free not only yourself but your wife as well. It's obvious that neither of you are happy at present, and you, being kind, ultimately want what's best for her."

Erik continued, as if caught by a wave of inspiration the words spilled forth, "Now because you have done nothing to indicate that you are an unfit parent, and also the generous commission you will grant to all included parties, you will be awarded partial custody of David, primary if you bribe large enough. Proactive. You won't mind splitting your assets with Gabrielle because you are, as we've established, kind and idealistic. And also obviously absolutely filthy rich."

"Once you are free of your wife, I see you finding happiness in other places. Maybe you should turn to teaching, it suits an idealist, passing on that 'moral high-ground' of yours. You're intelligent enough to do anything you'd like. You'll meet someone along the way, who'll make you happier than Gabrielle ever did. You aren't the type to look for a trophy wife to decorate your arm, or a meek little thing to stay in your kitchen and pump out babies. You'll find yourself an equal who takes as much joy in you as you do in them. You'll be sickeningly in love, so much so that you'll be that couple who everyone at once adores and envies. You'll grow old together never having run out of things to talk about-"

Charles' glass slipped from his clammy fingers and shattered against the hardwood, cutting Erik off mid rant. "Oh bloody hell." Charles cursed thickly, bending awkwardly to pick up the prices. His hands were shaking and a shard pricked the moist pad of his finger, drawing blood, "Oh shite."

Erik slid from his chair, bending stiffly and pushed him away. "I'll do it." he muttered, plucking up the glass quickly and depositing it in a decorative porcelain dish at his side. Charles hugged his cut hand to his chest protectively, growing increasingly aware of how wet his face was.

"T-thank you my friend," he rasped when Erik had gotten all the pieces, "There's a wastebasket in the corner just throw it there."

Erik did so, then returned to his side and held out his hand. Charles stared at the long, slender fingers blankly until Erik prompted, "Give me your hand Charles, I'll look at your finger." oh, right, injured and bleeding a little bit. Erik's touch was feather light against the back of his hand and he pulled out the small tube of disinfectant and roll of gauze that Charles had put in the pocket of the jeans he'd lent him in case his own wounds opened.

As Erik cleaned and wrapped his finger, Charles wiped his face as best he could trying his hardest to look casual. "That was," he began, his voice breaking awkwardly, "surprisingly poetic." he settled on, safe and accurate.

"And did it sound about accurate?"

"It sounded...lovely." Charles said heavily. It sounded wonderful, perfect, and so nearly tangible. It sounded so possible, yet so ludicrous. It sounded like the life Charles had always wanted, and Erik made it sound so damn easy. It wasn't, he told himself, it's not that simple. It couldn't happen, he'd resigned himself to lie in the bed he'd made. He'd been selfish and this was his punishment. He'd come to terms with that. Now Erik had to come stumbling into the picture and tear at his resolve with tantalizing images of the future he had always dreamed of. Charles had never wanted to revisit having to crush his own dreams all over again, but it was inevitable now that he'd glimpsed it once again.

"I'm sorry." Erik said, not even conscious of what it was he'd done. Charles couldn't exactly say that it was alright because that would be a lie, and he didn't exactly feel comfortable lying to this man at the moment. He nodded mutely in acknowledgment.

First aid successfully administered, Charles tugged his hand out of the other man's grip and backed away. "It's been a...fascinating talk Erik." he croaked, "But I think I'm going to go check on David now, I think he's calling me."

"I didn't hear anything Charles."

"In his mind! He's calling me in his mind." Charles lied, putting his hands to his wheels and bracing to leave, reaching out with his mind to prompt David to come downstairs. "Now, lunch will be in roughly an hour, David and I usually take it in the kitchen, you're welcome to join us. Until then feel free to amuse yourself with whatever. Just remember, locked doors are locked for a reason, moral high ground yadda yadda."

He hoped he didn't sound too rude, but he needed to get away to calm his mind. He needed the comfortable innocence of his son's sweet thoughts against his own, soothing the turmoil with his blissfully childish radiance.


	11. Erik 4

Erik wasn't surprised when Gabrielle asked him to come speak privately two days later. What did surprise him however, was that she had the nerve to get her toddler to deliver the invitation.

Erik glanced at Charles across the chess table and found the man studiously avoiding his eyes. "And when did your Mother want me to come up and talk with her?"

"She said now." David reported cheerfully, "She said she was in the east drawing room. Come on, I'll show you!" the little boy spun on his heel, socked feet nearly sending him down before compensating for the momentum, and started to skip off but Charles drew him back.

"No David," he said, almost too quietly to hear, but the kid froze nevertheless. "Erik can find his own way, come here and sit with me."

The boy obeyed without a peep and ran around the table to climb into Charles' lap. Still not looking up, the man wrapped his arms around his son and hugged him tightly. He looked...strangely vulnerable, even moreso than he had two nights before and he'd been crying then. At least he'd stood his ground during their conversation, and even his tears had been dignified. He hadn't tried to hide them from Erik for a moment.

Now, however, he was hiding. He clung to the toddler like a security blanket and pressed his face to the back of his neck. David didn't complain, just reached out to play with Charles' chess pieces, abandoned part way through their game.

Erik stared in disbelief. Surly Charles was going to do something. It was obvious what Gabrielle's intentions were. Erik for one had known since the moment he had first encountered her in the entrance hall after putting the front door back it's intended shape.

It had been a close call. She'd nearly caught him using his powers. He'd hopped to the job right after breakfast, while Charles and David cleaned up. It had been uncomfortably enduring to watch a full grown man filling his industrial sized sink with about four times as much dish soap as was necessary, despite the newfangled dishwashing machine that sat perfectly usable down by the other sink, yes there were two, just so that his son could stand on his lap and make Santa Claus beards.

With the sound of their laughter and off-key singing at his back, Erik had limped to the front of the mansion to survey the damage he'd done in his barely-conscious crawl through the front door.

Charles had told him to wait until he was well-enough not to strain himself. Erik didn't know about the other man's abilities, but using his powers was about as strenuous as breathing was when it was on a small level like rounding out a bent doorknob.

He had just set the door back on its reformed hinges when his spine had prickled the way it did when he was being followed, and he turned in time to see a strange woman creeping down the ornate staircase behind him.

His first instinct upon having an unfamiliar, slightly creepy looking person sneak up behind him would usually have been to fling a wad of metal at her head, but thankfully his reflexes were a tad laggy from the head wound and he stopped the reflex before he had to deal with an impromptu decapitation.

Gabrielle had a sort of waif-like beauty. Erik had never found much value it things that were pretty in the way that they looked like they'd break if touched, it seemed frivolous to him. Gabrielle was thin underneath the lacy princess-style nightgown she wore. She was also very short. He had a sudden passing thought about how poor David would probably be a pretty shrimpy kid when he got older, Charles hardly filled out his wheelchair.

It was clear by the thick cascade of ebony that hung limply over her shoulders and to her waist where their son had inherited his dark hair. But where the toddler's locks gleamed from obviously regular washings and brushings, the woman's was dull and greasy. She had an olive-like complexion that hinted at ethnic roots, but it was washed out as if she hadn't been in direct sunlight...well, ever. Her hazel eyes were huge and wide-set in her thin face, and they zeroed in on Erik immediately.

And since then, they hadn't left him. All throughout the excruciating hour spent in the formal dining-room while Gabrielle slowly sipped the gigantic glass of apple juice Charles had poured for her (despite the fact that he could barely reach the shelf without doing a chin up) she'd stared at him.

Erik was no stranger to heated glances, he'd just never been forced to sleep down the hall from a perpetrator before. He'd also never had to endure lustful looks in plain view of said perpetrator's husband, who he was starting to see as a...not friend...fond companion.

It was infuriating how totally Charles ignored his wife's wandering eye. Even now, faced with the very real, very immediate possibility that he was being summoned for an evening romp between Gabrielle's bed sheets, the man just sat and stroked his David's hair as if nothing at all was happening.

But he seemed resigned to it. Charles was staring at the floor as if he fully expected Erik to do it, and that he intended to sit there and not raise a finger to stop him. Erik stood, purposely causing his chair to scootch back loudly in an attempt to get Charles to look up. No such luck.

So Erik went upstairs. He had no intention or desire to sleep with Gabrielle. Again, she looked like she'd snap in half from the slightest pressure, and Erik could never claim to be a gentle man in any aspect of his life. But the schooled look of disinterest on the face of the man downstairs disgusted him. So he'd roll with the punches and see if he couldn't instigate a reaction of some sort.

The east drawing room was close to the guest room that Charles had assigned him after the first night, so he didn't need the extra awkwardness of asking Charles directions, or worse, taking David up on his offer to escort. The kid may not understand the implications, but the idea of the sweet little boy unwittingly aiding his mother's attempted infidelity was sickening. Erik breezed up the stairs easily and navigated the short trip to the designated rendezvous, unsure of what exactly to expect beyond the double oak doors.

Only one way to find out. He pushed through into the amber-lit room.

Each day spent in the Xavier Family Mansion brought new levels of ridiculously stereotypical luxury, and it appeared that today's example was the rich bearskin rug spread out in front of the hearth.

Erik took a moment to appreciate the artistic mastery that was the cavernous fireplace. Twining metal vines crept up the brickwork, ornate leaves and flowers dotting their lengths. He felt out the worked iron with a sweep of his metal-sense and very nearly started to salivate at the quality of the detailing. There were even tiny metal insects hidden among the vines, as well as two perfect little sparrows, lovely down to each feather. Erik wasn't a material man, but if being fabulously wealthy could buy you this kind of majesty, he might just take up bank robbing as a day-job.

Remembering belatedly his purpose for being there, Erik turned to the rest of the room. Gabrielle was perched by one of the huge bay windows, her maroon dress blending in remarkably well with the velvet curtains.

Erik regarded the woman with some surprise, she'd undergone a considerable transformation since he'd last seen her. She'd changed out of her nightclothes for one thing, a first in three days. Some of the grease seemed to have vacated her hair, and, he squinted, she was wearing makeup. It was a major improvement, but not enough to disguise the sunken quality of her eyes, or the frailness in her limbs.

"Mrs Xavier," he said quietly, "Is there something I can do for you?"

Straight to the point, letting her take initiative. Erik needed to see what it was this woman wanted. She was so willingly throwing herself at him, a man she had barely exchanged two words with, but to what ends? Did she want casual sex because of the obviously unfulfilling relationship with her husband? Did she think that he'd sweep her up and take her away in the style of romantic heroes? Was her lot so bad, with her gigantic house, surely bottomless bank account, and charming little family, that she was willing to shack up with a stranger to get away? It could be some sort of petty revenge against Charles for some slight or another that he wasn't aware of.

But now he could see that the woman lacked the convictions that her actions implied, for her hands were shaking violently. She seemed to notice his eyes on them so she fisted them tightly into the fabric of her evening gown.

"I...I, yes. Uhm, yes...Erik, I was wondering, I've noticed that you enjoy scotch so...if you'd have some...a drink, with me?"

Aha, get him drunk and seduce him. That was a tried and tested technique. Not once in his life had it worked on him. The women tended to underestimate his self-control, and overestimate their own tolerance of the drink. Erik may have grown up out of Germany, but he could still drink nearly anyone under the table.

"Yes," he agreed, "I don't see why not. Should we move downstairs though? So that Charles may join us?"

Gabrielle flushed and opened her mouth, then closed it. It seemed he'd caught her out, until she drew herself up to her full height (probably around 5'3) and said, "No, I'd rather it just be us."

"Oh?" Erik purred. So this woman would not be dissuaded so easily. He moved further into the room in order to sink into one of the large armchairs. He suspected that the woman had hoped he'd aim for the love seat so that she'd be able to cosy up next to him, and that's why her expression turned momentarily sour. He appeased her by asking "What's on the menu then?"

He was intentionally setting her up, for the second time really, to get down to it. Any other woman set on seduction would here insert a lurid line of some sort, but Gabrielle merely blushed darker and hurried over to what looked like a fully stocked bar that was built into the wall that the door was on.

Erik waited patiently until Gabrielle joined him. She handed him a generous cup full of something amber. A quick sniff told Erik that it was whiskey. Erik didn't usually like the drink, but he swirled the drink around the crystal tumbler, pushed aside his preferences and took a small mouthful.

The woman wasn't saying anything, so Erik looked up at her pointedly. She was, as usual, staring dazedly at him. This time her focus was directed at the arm that held his glass, so he experimentally flexed his finger, making muscle slide under skin. The movement was visible because he'd pushed up the sleeves of his shirt while downstairs with Charles.

As expected, the woman's eyes widened visibly, then flicked up to his face. When she realized that he was looking at her, she started and took a hurried gulp of her drink. Mistake, she immediately started coughing.

Erik stood and fetched her a glass of water from the tap in the bar. She took it gratefully, face redder than ever, and took a couple gasping gulps.

"Alright?" Erik asked. She nodded, not meeting his eyes.

"T-Thank you." she whispered, then louder, "You're ever so kind."

"It was nothing."

"No it wasn't!" she yelped, then looked embarrassed, "It's good to be taken care of."

What did she think Charles was trying to do? The implication was that he didn't do the same, which was grossly unfair. He'd spent the past few days watching the man strive to play his part as the doting husband, but the woman seemed intent on foiling every effort.

He didn't want to let her jab at Charles go, but he breathed deep and reclined into the chair with an unintelligible noise.

It actually would have been funny watching this whole scene unfold, he thought, had it not been so painful. If what he'd gleaned from his short stay in the mansion was accurate, Gabrielle likely didn't interact much with anybody, and it showed. She was visibly searching for words, and when she did find them, they were awkward and fractured.

They danced, figuratively, for an entire hour. More accurately, Erik would steer the conversation toward hooking up, Gabrielle would follow, and then unfailingly she'd lose courage and back away.

She asked him, "So, do you, have you a girlfriend?"

"No." He didn't have a girlfriend, and he never had. He'd had late night trysts with drunks he met in bars, he'd had harsh, impersonal fucks with prostitutes in seedy rented rooms. But the closest thing he'd ever had to a girlfriend was probably Magda, back in the camp.

They'd been sixteen, and never done more than make out and grope each other. There had been no way, not in Auschewitz, to actually have a proper relationship. People found solace in other people, but it was an unspoken rule not to get emotionally invested, as they might not be there for you an hour later. Maybe, if Schmidt hadn't taken him away later that year, maybe they would have become something more. Maybe they'd have hatched an elaborate escape plan, if they'd had more time, and broken free together and started a knew life with a brood of babies in a cottage by the sea.

But as it was, Magda was a faded memory of his first kiss and a ghost of what could have been. Who knows what had happened to her after Erik had been transported to Schmidt's personal facility. Likely, she was dead, perhaps she survived until liberation. He'd never know, never cared beyond a vague curiosity and fond reminiscence."

The woman sitting across from him presently seemed to perk up instantly at that. "Y-you don't? No...wife, either?"

"No." why the hell did she care? Yes he was unattached, free to pursue whatever sordid activities he chose. She was the one with a husband and child. These inquiries were useless, infidelity would be committed no matter what. At least, in theory. Erik was just biding time until he could head back downstairs to confront Charles. As a matter of fact, ever molecule of his being longed to be downstairs making intelligent conversation and drinking better liquor with the man. But he needed this to be convincing, needed to stay up here long enough for Charles to think that they were indulging in a thorough ravishing.

It had, of course, occurred to Erik that the man might be keeping mental tabs on them. It would be completely understandable, and Erik imagined that any husband with his powers would do it, but he suspected that Charles wasn't. The man's approach to his wife seemed to run in an 'ignorance is bliss' type agenda.

One interesting development for the evening was that Gabrielle was, apparently, very much a lightweight. In fact, he'd never drank with anyone quite so bad at holding their liquor. Half way through the admittedly large glass and her gaze had adopted a rather glazed quality, and she was slurring her consonants.

Erik wasn't finished his drink either, but that was because he was consciously staying sober. He had quite an experienced history in drinking and could more than handle tonight's amount if he chose to. But he was still counting on what was becoming his and Charles' nightly ritual of scotch and martinis, after everything was cleared up.

"Wha, wha colour are your eyesh?" Gabrielle asked, when they reached the hour and a half mark, and Erik was beginning to look for the right words to excuse himself.

"I believe they are grey, Mrs Xavier."

"Call me..call me Gabby. Erik. You have beautiful eyes. They change colour, see? Sometimesh they're blue, shometimesh they're green. I like them lots."

And she was hiccuping too, something Erik had only seen occur in real life a couple of times. The poor woman, girl for all it was worth, really was pathetic.

"Look, Mrs Xavier-"

"Gabby!"

He sighed, "Gabby. It's been a nice talk, but you look tired. You should go to bed." he rose and put his glass on the table beside him, intending to finally leave.

She looked panicked and jumped up as well, moving closer "No, I'm okay! Really, I just want..." she hiccuped loudly, raised her chin, eyes burning, "Iwantyoutomakelovetome." she breathed all in a rush that Erik wouldn't have understood if he hadn't been expecting it.

He opened his mouth to decline but before he could speak she was vomiting on his shoes.

By the time Erik made his way back downstairs, he'd been gone for over two hours, much longer than he'd intended. He wondered what Charles was thinking.

His bare feet padded down the stairs quietly, his ruined shoes and socks now residing in the trash. Poor Gabrielle had still been mortified when he'd walked her to her room minutes ago. Erik should probably mention to Charles to tell David not to go in that room until the cleaning service came tomorrow.

It wasn't how he'd been envisioned taking his leave of the situation, but it had shaken the girl from him completely. In fact, she hadn't seemed to be able to get away fast enough.

It worked for Erik, he was anxious to get back downstairs to see Charles. The whole point of humoring Gabrielle had been to get a rise out of the man, but part of Erik now seemed to just want to get down and reassure him that he hadn't actually betrayed him.

Easier said than done, apparently, as the master of the house wasn't in the wing Erik had left him in. He concentrated, throwing out his senses like a net to catch the increasingly familiar metal frame of the other man's chair.

Not in the library, nor the adjoining room. No sign of him in the kitchen, dining room or any of the sitting rooms. Erik pushed further, bruised head twinging slightly from the effort, and finally felt him. Erik sped up, hurrying to the terrace that lay off the music room at the far North end of the house. Across the cool tiled floor of the dark sun-room and out the glass doors into the starlit night.

Charles was in his chair beside the large ornate fountain. The thing was rather gaudy, with carved cherubs and angels entwined, but it was empty save for a thick layer of dead leaves and dirt. The man was reclined in his chair, one hand loosely holding an empty tumbler, the other rubbing slow circles on his sleeping son's back.

"Ch-" Erik began, walking across the cracked stonework toward the other man, but Charles cut him of with a raised hand. Erik frowned and stepped up beside him, "No, listen-"

"Oh do be quiet Erik." Charles said lowly, eyes flashing up briefly before turning pointedly away, over the pitch black forest, "David is asleep." and then since the man was impeccably polite no matter the situation, "Thank you."

But Erik was having none of it and he stepped closer to loom over the man, "Then let's go inside and put him to bed so we can finish our game and-"

"No, no I don't think so. I don't want to wake him up I'll just keep him with me tonight. So sorry, we'll have to leave the game unfinished. I think I'll do that now, call it a day. Terribly sorry Erik, good night." he reached to turn his chair toward the house; it took him a good thirty seconds of yanking at the wheel before he clued into the fact that Erik had the brakes locked in place.

"Let me go." He said quietly, and Erik could feel how tight his grip on the metal rims of the chair was, "Erik, let me go so that I can take my son inside."

"Give him to me Charles, I'll take him upstairs and then we can-" He was standing right in front of the man now, their knees nearly brushing. But Charles had his eyes fixed firmly on the glossy top of the slumbering child's head. Erik leans down without thinking, placing his hand gently on the boy's blanket-covered arm and-

-Pain like nothing he'd felt in a very long time spiked through his skull. Bursts of white exploded in his vision and he reeled, legs giving out under him to send him crashing sideways onto the cement surface of the patio. He barely registered the sensation of the jarring impact behind the agony in his head, burning and burning like panic and terror and so much despairing hurt.

Thankfully it only lasted a fraction of a second and the. Erik found himself flat on his back, ears ringing and an indescribably foul taste in his mouth, but the pain had vanished completely, without even a lingering ache. He blinked up at the stars, brain chugging to catch up and process what had just happened. By the time he got himself upright, wobbling slightly, (but that's from the concussion not the mental lashing) he found himself utterly alone outside. The door into the sun-room was open, blinds fluttering in the breeze, no trace of Charles except for the feeling of his chair speeding in the direction of the library room.

He made his way slowly after him, contemplating following the man into his room to clear up the misunderstanding. He paused in the cavernous foyer, and considered walking out and leaving this place behind. But the show of power he'd just witnessed, the raw force behind the attack, as well as the neat withdrawal..._Charles could very well be stronger than Shaw's telepath._

So he decided to take the chance and stay one more night. Tomorrow he would try to make amends with his host, explain that his only intention had been to prove a point. And then he'd keep on worming his way into the man's good graces, the hazy beginnings of a plan coming together in his mind. Because if Charles was as strong as Erik suspected, he could easily take care of Emma Frost, leaving Shaw without his queen...

Erik stood in the sitting room and stared down at the chess set, lips slowly stretching into a dark smile. With a flick of one finger, the white queen topples over, rolling a short way before coming to a stand still.


End file.
